tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-87628076931435115702024-03-05T00:19:33.490-07:00Montana TumbleweedMusings of an American author from the Plains of Montana.
All writings are copyrighted by Sondra Jean Ashton. No reproduction without express written permission from the author. To see her poetry, go to www.MontanaTumbleweedPoetry.blogspot.comSondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.comBlogger759125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-41399404037950353232024-03-02T14:23:00.000-07:002024-03-02T14:23:02.947-07:00Miles to go before we plant<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Miles to go before we plant</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1.5in; text-indent: .5in;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It is
interesting to contemplate that a mere two month old baby has accumulated more
frequent flier miles than I have in the past five years. The comparison is
easy. My mileage is 0. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">More
astounding is that little Marley’s flights cost more than the sum total of all
my flights, domestic and foreign, inclusive of but not exclusively: multiple
domestic flights, Hawaii, Alaska, Mexico, China, Japan and India. Who could
have imagined this farm girl could have visited so many far places! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Marley spent
last week in the all-inclusive exotic resort, Hospital St. Vincent’s in
Billings, via her second life-flight, treating for a return of pneumonia. I was
too upset to even talk about it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I learned
something. When a person we love is dangerously ill, we, not just me, tend to
distance ourselves from the pain by referring to them as she or he, the baby,
her mother or his son. When I realized that, I changed my language to Marley
this and Marley that, keeping her close in my heart. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Marley is
back home again today. Our little Marley has officially spent exactly one-half
of her life in St. Vincent’s NICU. My little great grand-daughter has
accumulated a whole world of people who ‘own’ her, as my friend Kathy said. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That is the
update on my Montana life, which I live vicariously, via telephone. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Since I
write about whatever is happening in my life, and I don’t pretty it up, I’m
going to tell you what ‘almost’ happened today. I ‘almost’ got in a snit with a
friend. It was my snit. Not hers. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yesterday I
sent out a photo of my azalea, planted in a garbage can, to my high-school
girlfriend-group. It is spectacular, more flowers than foliage, perfumes my
entire front garden. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My friend
Karen replied that she wanted an azalea but thought it might not grow in her
new home in Nevada. I wrote back, why not, the winters are milder than in
Floweree. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ellie
wrote.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Azaleas need acidic soil. Nevada
soil is alkaline. Don’t plant it. Won’t grow. Those are not her exact words. It
is how I heard the words. Like a slap. I felt dismissed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I removed myself
from the keyboard before I plink-plink-plinked-send. Got a glass of water, took
a hike, calmed down. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ellie is a
serious gardener. She researches every flower and bush and tree she plants.
Karen is a Master Gardener. Both women are much more knowledgeable than me. I’m
simply lucky to live in Jalisco, the Garden State of Mexico where if you spit,
something will grow, because you probably had a tomato-guava-jalapeno-some-kind-of-seed
stuck in your teeth. Ask the birds. They know. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My friend
Ellie researches her soil, how much water the plant will take, how much debris
the plant will make, how long it will flower, shade or sun needs, what the
plant wants to eat and when to burp it. She is thorough. Proof is manifest in
her beautiful low-water-needs garden in Central (dry) California. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I finally
sat back at my computer to respond, I thanked Ellie for the information. But, I
couldn’t help myself. My ego reared her ugly head and I went on to say I have
no idea whether our soil here is alkaline or acidic. It is volcanic. Everything
seems to want to grow, whether or not I want it to grow. However, my beautiful
azalea sits regally in a large trash can filled with planting soil from David’s
Vivero Centro. (So there!) <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My gardening
style is hit or miss. “Oh, I like you. I’ll plant you here. If you grow, good.
If you don’t, off with your head.” Having admitted to my ignorance, I do tend
to stick with plants that are easy, plants that I see thriving in gardens all
around me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I don’t know
why I got in a snit, short lived, but it was definitely there. There had been
no real provocation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I have a
colander full of tomatoes that want to become soup base, so I’d best get on
with making soup happen. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I wonder, do
tomatoes want acidic soil or alkaline soil? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ll keep
that wonder to myself. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">March
already! <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-51684859786604890842024-03-02T14:20:00.003-07:002024-03-02T14:20:43.404-07:00 To Tapir or Not to Tapir<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"> <b> </b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>To Tapir or Not to Tapir </b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Michelle
called. “I need to take Blue to the vet in Tala tomorrow. Ana can’t come with
me because she is overseeing the work crew building our new guest house. Would
you be able to come along with me?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“What time
do we leave?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Michelle
picked me up. Blue, tucked in his kitty carrier, never made a peep the whole
trip. Michelle and I filled the air with words covering multiple spectrums. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Background:
Blue is an elderly cat, not in the best of health. Michelle feared this might
be his last trip, yet, there were signs he wanted to live. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">More
background: Tala is an old factory town. The sugar cane processing plant pumps
white steam into the air from October through May. Somewhere off the highway
there is a Coca-Cola plant. In town, and it all seems to be ‘Old Town’, the
streets are narrow, not laid out for modern vehicles. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Even more
background: This veterinary practice specializes in small animals, mostly dogs,
but will see cats too. Michelle said one time when they came, the vet was
treating a horse, in the courtyard, I’m sure. The man who started the clinic
had three sons, all of whom went to veterinary school and joined the thriving
practice. Vets in Etzatlan mainly see to the health of cattle and horses, farm
animals. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We had no
more than settled down to wait our turn, when, trailed by two large dogs, in
walked a man, cuddling a scruffy, long-snouted creature in his arms. Our eyes
grew large as dinner plates.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Is that a
tapir?” “I think so.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The man must
have had an appointment because he was shuttled directly into a room. Michelle
and I tip-toed to the open doorway, trying to get a peek. The man stood with
broad back blocking our view. Reluctantly, we backed off before we became rude
and intrusive. Wow, a tapir!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We left Blue
in the capable hands of the vet hospital persons. His problems are being
treated. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My grandson,
Tyler, is a rescuer of animals and has his own rather exotic collection with
their various care requirements. Tyler is set on his own pathway to become a
vet. I must tell him about the tapir. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yes, wow, a
tapir! This man held the animal close in his arms, his hands comforting it. The
animal was not struggling to escape, though it was moving about. So, how do you
get one? I’ve never seen a tapir at Pet’s R Us. But, then, I’ve never looked. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">How do you
care for a tapir? This one responds to petting. Would it enjoy being brushed?
Do you keep it in the house? What does it eat? I’ve never seen bags of Tapir
Food at Tractor Supply or the pet supply aisle of IGA. Then, again, I’ve never
looked. My Lola would never agree to such an adoption. Share her doghouse?
Never, no way. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This
particular tapir, if tapir it is indeed, must be a toddler. I had to look them
up. These animals get quite large, are similar to wild pigs. Some varieties are
bigger than others. This looked like a Mexican tapir. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On a whim, I
looked up anteaters. No, I think it was a tapir. I can imagine a tapir as a
pet. Not so much, the anteater. Although, feeding an anteater would be no
problem. “Here you go sweet pea, a large yard. Have at it.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I do wonder
how one comes to be cuddling a tapir. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Still
February<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-41080511263240712452024-03-02T14:18:00.000-07:002024-03-02T14:18:05.940-07:00Here a Little, There a Little<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b>Here a Little, There a Little</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #ff00fe;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Why do the
little changes take up so much space? I should qualify that with an addition,
“in my head?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Really, most
changes hardly make a dent in my consciousness. Change is constant. My favorite
bowl slips from my fingers and shatters on the tile floor. Blip—gone. The
rubber tip on my cane wears out. I replace it. Lola The Dog celebrates her
birthday (Okay, I celebrate her birthday). I notice she has quite a few more
white hairs. Change, like a river, always moving. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Other
changes. I give them <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>big space, make
them important. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Over the
years while Julie lived next door, we’ve slowly come to know each other. Julie
is married to Francisco, whose family home is a thirty minute drive northwest
of here, where they will make their new home. “We will visit often,” she
assures me. I nod and smile, knowing that her life will zoom a different
direction. New home, new neighbors. Yes, we will visit, but, with decreasing
frequency. It’s the way of life. It will not be the same as chatting over the
gate, in the back yard or on the patio three or four times a week. Change.
Neither good nor bad. Simply change. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then there
is the weather. Just when I’ve gotten used to the patterns I’ve observed the
years I’ve lived in Etzatlan, it goes slop-sided on me, big time. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As expected
in February, days began warming. I took one of the covers off my bed yesterday
morning. I’d been tossing it off at night for a couple weeks. I’ve been using
my heater only sporadically, an hour or two if I felt chilled. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As usual, I
walked my dog at noon. Sat in the shade a while. Chatted with a neighbor. Warm
and comfortable.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Lola The Dog
got antsy around 3:00, insisted we walk again. Okay, I grumbled under my
breath. The wind had come up, stolen all the heat in those couple hours. I put
the quilt back on my bed, turned on the heater in my suddenly cold house, made
a cup of steaming tea to heat body and soul. Watched the clouds threaten rain,
a few drops here but real rain in towns around us. It “never” rains in
February. A rare shower in March, my neighbor assured me, never in February. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Just for
giggles I checked the forecast a week ahead. Colder. Rain every day. “What do
you mean, turning colder?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rain?” Lower
numbers 20 to 25 degrees, sun-up and sun-down, which may not be cold in Montana
but it means cold where I live. What’s with the rain? Welcome rain! Go away,
cold!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">You’d think
by my reaction that I had been personally affronted. I turned up my heater,
resigned to another big power bill. Lola and I walked again around 6:00,
bundled in my winter-wear. Should I make Lola a doggy coat? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">While walking,
my thoughts turned to physics. Not the high school physics of 1963. Or maybe it
was. I had pretty much day-dreamed through physics, slouched in my seat, “Lady
Chatterley’s Lover” tucked into the pages of my text book. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I wondered
if air hurts. This was not a new wondering. I remember racing Sputnik the
length of the hay field after the hay had been stacked, huge billowing storm
clouds behind us, crackle of electricity in the air, feeling the air part
around us. That was long ago, still in the 60s, when I first wondered if air
hurt or noticed or cared. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’d think about
that airy notion, time to time, on the open Montana highway, parting the air at
80 mph. Or on the airplane over the Pacific, on the way to China, or on I-5,
Seattle to LA, maneuvering through more vehicles than surely should exist. Or
the water, while on the Ferry from Seattle to Bainbridge Island. Does water
hurt? Does it make a difference, what we do without thought, at such speeds? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Without
doubt, it makes a difference to bugs and fishies. If air or water are
contaminated, we hurt. But what does it mean to continually stir the air?
Nothing? Anything? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I certainly
do not advocate we return to horse and buggy days. That would be a change too
far.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like cars. I’d quite happily own
a gas guzzler if it were not cheaper and easier for me to pay someone else for
transportation. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Julie will
move. It will rain in February. I’ll part the air carefully while walking the
lane. I think I’ll read “Lady Chatterley’s Lover” again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">February,
still winter (with rain!) <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #ff00fe;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-84251427319757156042024-02-07T13:14:00.003-07:002024-02-07T13:14:40.531-07:00<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>All My Noisy
Neighbors</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">First things
first. Our Baby Marley is home. She is home, ready for the hard work of getting
healthy and growing and looking at everything around her with those big eyes.
We are so grateful. And we are so grateful for all the friends and strangers
who cared, who in small ways took our baby in their arms and into their hearts
and helped her heal. Thank you. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That dog of
mine has put me into the habit of greeting the rising sun on our first walk of
the day. Believe me, before Lola came to live with me, I did not leave the
house at first light.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve no
problem anthropomorphizing non-humans around me. This morning, in my
meditations, the birds, in all their great variety, inhabiting the
wide-spreading trees, took on characteristics of people living in high-rise
condominiums, maybe without quite as much fuss as we humans. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Kiskadees
prefer the upper floors, the penthouse suites, noses high in the air, a bit
above the rest of us, more colorful, louder in their opinions. Let me tell you,
those Kiskadees, they are loud! And insistent that you hear their opinions.
Over and over and over. They would be great radio personalities, you know the
kind, ones who host phone-in talk shows. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Tanagers and
Palomas seem to furnish the middle units quite happily. These characters are
softer voiced, more musical, more space between their words. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Rainbirds
like to hang out, separate but connected. They are private types, tend to
listen before they sound off. (I’m making this up, of course, you know that.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Partridge
doves and warblers nest in every limb of the lower units. These inhabitants of
the numerous condos, apartments and high-rises around us, provide the
background music of life, always there, always singing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Of course,
this is my own silliness, a silliness that sprang from thinking about how much
the birds need the trees and the trees need the birds. That’s what I think, at
any rate. And we, or I, need the trees and the birds. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I leave
the house in the morning I walk beneath a ring of trees, full of birds singing
the sun up. If the birds go silent, I look around to see what and why. They pay
no attention to me. This morning I saw a hawk, a rare sight. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Vultures are
always circling the air currents. Vultures don’t live in our ring of trees but
they have habitations in a particular group of trees in town. The birds give no
mind to the vultures, knowing they are looking for riper prey. Once my birds
deemed the hawk of no danger to them, they resumed song. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But is it
song? Maybe they are arguing. My nest is better than your nest. What about that
slovenly bird-brain on branch 23? Birds of that feather shouldn’t be allowed to
live among we-are-better-than-thems. Deport that bunch back to Missouri. Take
away their visas. Those lower-caste birds on the bottom tiers, can’t we boot
them to the slums? They are surely nothing but troublemakers. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In my world,
silly or not, I’ll call bird voices song. Or prayer. Or blessing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This morning
I noticed a flock of yellow Tanagers. I love the Tanagers. (The Western Tanager
is red-orange, a glory of feather-dress, and likes to hang out in the
Bottlebrush.) These yellow Tanagers, or they might be Orioles, were riding the
air to the height of the tallest pines. We have a type of pine tree that tends
to loom above the spreading-branches trees. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The tanagers
this morning perched on outside branches of the pine tree above Julie’s house,
arranged themselves as if they were Christmas decorations. The sight so
delightful, I had to stop in my tracks with admiration for so long that Lola,
who’d pranced ahead of me, came back to see why I had not followed her back to
our house. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve come to
believe, personal experience, youth is wasted on the young. When I grew up on
my Dad’s farm on the Milk River, my get-away place was a cottonwood tree, trunk
and branches leaning over the water. I’d climb that tree to sing, to cry, to
celebrate, to sulk, to dream, to tell God of my understanding back then, what I
wanted and how I thought my life should go. Amen. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I remember
the texture of the cottonwood bark beneath my fingers, the solid branches
holding me in the air, the mottled shadows of sunlight through the leaves, the
tortured twigs of winter. But, I don’t remember the birds. I know there were
birds. There had to be birds. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Where were
the birds? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Where was I?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">February,
still winter<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-61936762499701814782024-02-07T13:11:00.003-07:002024-02-07T13:11:28.005-07:00 Making My Retreat Center in the Kitchen<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <b> </b><b>Making My Retreat Center in the
Kitchen</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Life is
tough. At times, life is tougher. I’m on the periphery of that tough life but I
feel it just the same.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Baby Marley
is still in the hospital in Billings. She’s not out of the woods, but slowly on
the right path, healing from RSV and Pneumonia and detoxing from the drug that
kept her paralyzed during the worst of her personal storm. Mom and Dad still
camp out in her room. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Meanwhile,
back home in Glendive, Grandma Dee and Grandpa Chris and Uncle Tyler are taking
care of the other children, in ages, two and three, six and eight. Grandma came
down with a horrible cough, ear and throat infections, and is medicating the
best she can while continuing work and child care. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sure, I
could hop a plane. And be one more person needing care, not being currently
winterized, among other disabilities.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me, I’m 2500
miles away but next door to the whole rumpus. I want to run away. I want to go
on retreat. A three-day retreat would be better than any vacation. I’m serious.
I’ve given this a lot of thought, edging into overthink. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The solution,
obvious, is that I live in my own retreat center. I could hang a sign on my
gate: “On Retreat. Do Not Disturb”. My problem is that I don’t want to unplug
my phone. I want to know. I want to stay in touch with family. Goes against
retreat rules, right? Rules such as no phone, no computer, no contact, no
talking. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When Baby
and Grandma are back to health and their own homes, I will make my retreat,
sans phone and computer and talk. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In the
interim, I find retreat in my kitchen. My kids used to say, “Watch out. Mom’s
making bread.’ That was shorthand code for “Mom’s upset. Stay out of the way.”
I’ve always found comfort in pummeling bread dough. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Baking bread
doesn’t mean I’m upset. I bake bread because I’m out of bread. Because I want
to do something nice for a neighbor. Because I’m stressed. Because I’m happy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I find
comfort in my kitchen. Instead of my usual honey whole-wheat bread, I decided
to try a different bread roll recipe, new to me. Oh, my. I found the queen of
all breads. Instead of baking cookies to eat with my morning coffee, and I had
cookie dough in the refrigerator, ignored, I broke off a bread roll and
delighted in the goodness. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I shared
these rolls with a couple other people, suggested they try them with morning
coffee. They have metaphorically lined up outside my gate waiting for me to
bake again. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Figuring I
had to make sure the recipe wasn’t a fluke, I made a second batch. Plain dough
that good just might make sweet rolls. I divided the dough into sandwich buns, dinner
rolls and cinnamon rolls. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When the
cinnamon rolls cooled slightly, I broke off a taste-test. These are better than
my usual cinnamon rolls. The bread is softer, more delicate, carries the
flavors well. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Immediately
I contacted my friend. Michelle, I know you and Ana are taking your sister
Susan to the airport tomorrow. If you have time, stop by for cinnamon rolls and
coffee. I knew their schedule would be tight. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They came.
We ate, we drank, we had an unspoken communion. The plate of rolls disappeared.
I shooed my friends on down the road. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That is one
of the joys of a kitchen retreat center. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Several
friends bake bread. We compare and share recipes. Most of my friends bake bread
without ever touching the dough. This I do not understand. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We all use
recipes. A recipe is a guide, right? We grew up, each with a slightly different
guide or recipe for how to live. Circumstances might change, a difference in
ingredients, an addition here or a subtraction there. That’s life. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Same for
bread. The flour here is less refined but ground to a fineness that makes me
smile. My butter is different than your butter. Honey or sugar? Sea salt or the
stuff from the blue box with the girl and umbrella? Do they still sell that?
Potato water? So many choices. Same for life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I want my
hands in the flour, to bring the ingredients together just right, to knead the
dough until it is smooth and elastic and slightly blistery. How can I pour my
heart into the dough without getting messy? The dough talks to me. My fingers
understand the lingo. My fingers know when the dough is just right, ready to
rise in a covered bowl, ready to shape and bake. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Bread of
life with love and worry and frustration and goodness. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 208.2pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Don’t bother me. I’m in the kitchen. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 208.2pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 208.2pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 208.2pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">February, none too soon<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 208.2pt;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #bf9000;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-48433935351429360892024-02-07T13:08:00.003-07:002024-02-07T13:08:35.106-07:00I’m all shook up!<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>I’m all
shook up!</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">No, that
does not refer to an earthquake.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If you are
of an age, you will recognize this as a song sung by Elvis when he was a
youngster himself, around 1957. “I’m in love. I’m all shook up!”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Love
manifests in many ways and early last week my world and the world of my family
was all shook up. My great-granddaughter, Baby Marley, was diagnosed with RSV
and pneumonia. Along with Mom, Jessica, Marley was transported from Glendive to
Billings on a life-flight. Her family immediately came together with plans for
how to cope. Of course, all the plans fell apart. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By the end
of the day, revised plans in place, Jessica and Marley were safely ensconced in
the NICU at St. Vincent’s. Damon (Dad) was en route with instructions to drive
mindfully on the snowy, icy roads to Billings. Christopher (Grandpa), Dee Dee
(Grandma) and Uncle Tyler stepped in to take care of the other four little
ones, schedule to be revised as needed, which pretty much has meant daily
restructuring. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Several
hours passed that first day before we learned that Marley was in NICU, hooked
up to various lines to support her life. Life lines. Sounds better than tubes.
Semantics, I know. During those several hours of knowing nothing, I was a wet,
sopping mess. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m an old
hide, as my friend Dick used to say. I’ve lost my parents, my aunts and uncles,
my closest friends and many, many people close in other ways. Each death left a
scar on my heart. Nothing hurt like losing my baby. It is a different kind of
pain. Too many women in our part of Montana can attest to what I say. Many,
many women stepped out of their path to comfort me that winter in 1964. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This little
Baby Marley, one I haven’t held in my arms, took over my heart in an
overwhelming way. Part of my feeling was from fear. I do not want Jess and
Damon, my whole family, to go through that loss. Don’t tell me that fear and
love cannot live side by side. Love is bigger but I would be lying if I told
you love pushed out fear. I wish it would. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The latest
news from the doctors is that Marley will probably be in the hospital another
week. My family “on the ground” in Glendive are exhausted, juggling child care for
the other four children with their regular jobs and responsibilities. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We all have
hope. The second night Marley was in the hospital, I had a dream in which a
tightly swaddled baby was thrust into my arms. This little baby was a boy. Throughout
the night’s dreams, I held that baby snug to my chest. I wondered if I had
carried Marley through the night. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My friend
asked, “Did you carry the baby or did that baby carry you?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Ah.” I said,
as I recognized another truth. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I respond to
soppy, sappy old love songs. We’ve all been bit by the bug. Baby Marley is our
little buttercup. We surround her with a puffy pillow of love. Her whole family
is carried on a puffy pillow-clouds of love. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At this
point, week two in the hospital, it looks like another week ahead. Exhausting.
But hopeful. We are all shook up. All of us. We know what matters. Love
matters.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">January soon
over<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-55122164359484758412024-01-16T15:09:00.006-07:002024-01-16T15:09:44.822-07:00 I Am A Plaid Flannel Shirt<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <b> </b><b>I Am A Plaid Flannel Shirt</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My friend
Jerry wrote me this week. Skipping the personal stuff, he asked, “Is it
possible for you to create a 501 3C to raise money in U.S. to help people in
need in Etzatlan?” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Once I
picked myself off the floor still hooting, I wrote back something like the
following. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A 501 3C?
Oh, Jerry, I thought you knew me better than that! You ask me to do a suit job.
I am not a suit. I am a well-worn flannel shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am a lot of things, my friend. I am an
artist, an inventor, a mechanic, a poet, a farmer, a dreamer, a leader. I am a
friend. But I am not a suit. I am not even one sleeve of a suit. Oh, how I wish
I were. My life would be so different.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Let me
interject that I’ve known Jerry since school days. Jerry helped me with Algebra
and I wrote his term papers to his specifications. He’d say, “Give me a C+ this
time. I think Mrs. Hunter was suspicious of that last B.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Jerry is a
suit. We both went to school in little Harlem, Montana. Jerry got further away
than most of us, not geographically, but in other directions. Jerry is still
one of us. He just cleans up really, really well. Jerry knows which fork to use.
Jerry is a financial investor for a major bank. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I sold
my house in Harlem, and compared to housing values throughout the country, we
don’t even ping the scale, I asked Jerry if he would invest my wee landfall for
me. Jerry kindly explained the smallest investment he handles, and he named an
amount that I cannot even count that high. I was mortified, humiliated, wanted
to crawl into a cave. I survived. We are friends.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Jerry and
his wife visited me when I’d lived here in Etzatlan only a couple years. And
they returned every year until the Pandemic. I don’t know if he fell in love
with Etzatlan but he definitely has an affinity for our town. Every year he
sends me a generous amount of money for the old-people’s home which is run
totally on donations and always in need. Leo and I scurry around town and buy
food supplies and personal items for the people. The store owners always
generously adjust the costs downward when they learn where our purchases are
going. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So you can
understand why Jerry thought I’d want to help. I had to decline the job. I
said, Jerry, I have neither the experience nor the expertise to do such a job.
Numbers and money are beyond my ken. (Sigh.) <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In my former
life, I was leader of a group that built a theatre, from nothing, after paying
off a huge debt left by the former administration. One of our first priorities
was to obtain a 501 3C. It took a lot of doing and would have been impossible
without Kathleen. And without Al, our bean counter and the man who made sure
our feet stayed on the ground, and without David who described himself as
general dog’s body but we couldn’t have done without him and without the
handful of other volunteers, all extremely important, all adding their bits of
experience and passion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Emphasis on
“group”. We were a small, emphasis on small, handful of volunteers and from a
near ten thousand dollar debt, we emerged and built a one-hundred seat black
box theatre. We did what couldn’t be done. We.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When our
theatre became successful enough to fill the seats every weekend, I was smart
enough to step down and seek someone with suit skills to carry it forward. I am
very proud to say that the Jewel Box still puts on plays, still serves the
community and is thriving. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I blathered
on to Jerry a good bit about my own personal stuff and ended my missive with
“much love from the plaid flannel shirt”. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This morning
I had coffee in town with a friend and told her about Jerry’s request and how I
had had to turn him down. Her eyes lit up. “Let me think about this. I do know
how to go about obtaining a 501 3C and this sounds right up my alley.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I wrote
Jerry back and told him that his idea did not die on my vine. We need to get
together. I envision much dialogue. Who knows but the impossible might be
possible, not with me, but with we. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">January,
spring side, more or less<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-33531983353814432632024-01-16T15:07:00.005-07:002024-01-16T15:07:50.447-07:00Scratching the Seven-Year Itch<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span><b>Scratching the
Seven-Year Itch</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I have lost
three entire nights of sleep this week, misplaced where there will be no
finding, scratching the seven-year itch. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">You could
also name my malady the Grass Is Greener Syndrome. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The grass is
never greener. It just looks that way from across the fence. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This is not
an unusual occurrence for me. Something within me likes the challenge of new
experiences. Frequently over the years while I’ve lived out on my little chunk
of quiet, peaceful Paradise, I’ve cast my eyes around town and had the thought
that I’d like to live in town, smack dab in the middle of noisy things
happening.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I think
about getting increasingly less mobile with age. Living in town would be easier
in some ways. Cheaper, too. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My neighbor
is negotiating to sell her little bit of Paradise. She won’t be moving far, a
half hour drive to the village of her husband. These last few years the couple
has split their time between here, La Mesata and her home in Minnesota. She
talks with me about these changes, her fears and her excitements.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That was all
the trigger I needed. I can justify any move, any change. If I moved to a wee
rental in town, I wouldn’t have the constant upkeep I have here. I ain’t
gettin’ any younger. And so on <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and so
on, my mind goes gadding about. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">All in the
comfort of my bed, eyes refusing to stay closed, I located a casita, fronting
the sidewalk, like every other house on the block, warmer with every casa
sharing walls on each side. In back, just enough room for a clothesline and my
few herb pots. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I packed. I
discarded, made piles, gave away, saved, and made arrangements for all to be
dispensed, disposed or moved, all with my head on my pillow, all while telling
myself to shut up and go to sleep. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My Lola The
Dog had to learn to become a house dog, content to lie on a rug. When we walked
the neighborhood, she had to learn the leash again, no more roaming free. She
got pudgy, more rounded. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My new
neighborhood had a tiny grocery around the corner, easily located, as tiny
groceries dot every block. The tortillaria was conveniently across the street.
My neighbors included a few other elderly women as well as the usual young men
with loud cars and louder parties. Boom, boom, boom went the Beat! I am
realistic, even in my imaginations. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I watched a
parade of things I miss by living out on the edge, in the countryside. Street
vendors carrying buckets of tamales, trays of doughnuts, carts of hot sweet
potatoes. Reluctantly I added the propane trucks slowly passing, loudspeaker
announcing their coming and going; the cars with speakers over the roof,
telling us of events in the Plaza, coming election news, specials at the new
box stores, relentless. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">All of this
activity, all the energy expended, all night long, left me worn out by day. The
next night, I hit rewind and played it again. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Reality is
that nobody is queued up at my gate wanting to purchase my casita. Reality is
that I have created a unique and beautiful haven. (Reality is that I do this
wherever I go because that is who I am.) Shhh, I tell myself. Quiet. Breathe.
All will be well. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Today I am
sitting out in my back yard, in the sunshine, surrounded by greenery and
flowers, and birds and butterflies, all manner of color and blossom and
brilliance. After three nights of work, I fired myself from the job of
relocating, no workmen’s comp coming to me except that I shall sleep tonight. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This is my
today, my salve to comfort the itch. The grass may not be greener but it is my
greener.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">January
chilly, frost up the mountain<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #3d85c6;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-67794943546517517602024-01-16T15:05:00.006-07:002024-01-16T15:05:59.331-07:00 Animal Stories<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <b> </b><b>Animal Stories</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #ff00fe;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It was a
dark and stormy night. Oh, wait! Different story.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It was the
day before New Year’s Eve. Leo and I were sitting in the sun chatting after he
had mouse-proofed my washing machine with a length of screen and duct tape. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Mice are on
the move every year during corn harvest when they temporarily are forced out of
their home and well-stocked grocery. My washing machine sits tucked away in the
back corner of my patio, outdoors. This is not the first time mice thought the
machine makes a good dwelling place. It’s only a short scurry to the Dog Dish
fast-food restaurant. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Take my word
for it, you do not want mice to set up housekeeping inside your washing
machine. Our solution isn’t pretty, but aesthetics don’t matter or is it that I
make it oblivious to myself? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So we were
sitting in the sun just chewing the fat, satisfied with outwitting a horde of
stinky mice. (That sentence is technically wrong on so many levels but I’m an
old woman and I no longer care.) Leo asked me if I had enough drinking water to
last until Tuesday morning or did I want him to go fill my empty jug now. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That
question was code for, “I’m a young man and this is New Year’s and all my
friends and I will be partying and I won’t return before Tuesday.” Then he
asked about my New Year plans.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I laughed.
“Oh, Leo. I’m such a party animal. I will be kicking up my heels on Sunday
night too. I will. In bed with a good book by 7:30, that is. Asleep by 9:00, no
doubt. The noise of fireworks might wake me, but I’ll roll over and go back to
sleep. I’m a bear-ish kind of party animal.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then Leo
asked, “What age were you when you no longer wanted to party?” This was code
for “I’m 36 and party life is no longer as fun as it used to be.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I gave
thought to his question. “Everyone’s different, Leo. Drinking and dancing and
all that was fun, but, for me, partying always carried a cloud of fear. I’ve
looked back a lot. Drinking and dancing, for me, was an excuse for the ‘all
that’. I kept trying though. It was a relief when I could finally say, ‘I’m
done.’” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d always had to be on guard
from my own actions, always scared, afraid of what I might do or say or cause.
Most people aren’t that way. Most people don’t count their drinks and wonder
why stopping at two didn’t work.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As an
example, I told Leo about my first New Year’s Eve party, welcoming 1964, in the
Cowboy Bar in Dodson. I was only 18 but it didn’t matter. This was ’63-’64 in
Dodson. I was with my husband. The bar was packed. This bar served two kinds of
drinks and I sure wasn’t drinking whiskey. I might have had two beers but that
didn’t keep me from trouble. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I remember
saying something horrible to a neighbor. Maybe nobody heard. He probably
wouldn’t remember. But I do. I spent many nights awake in humiliation and
self-loathing, reliving my actions. That may sound like a small thing but it
was huge to me. I’ve spent time re-living every party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do not miss those nights afterward, swamped
in guilt and fear and embarrassment. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If you want
to know how to really party, watch the Partridge Doves. Those little feathery
fluffs know how to have a good time. A whole flock has set up housekeeping in
my Bottlebrush tree. They paint a Christmas card picture, sitting on branches
in pairs in the early morning chill, huddled, preening, fussing, being
worshipped by the rising sun. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One could do
with a worse model. The night of New Year’s Eve, 2023-2024, sure enough, I was
in bed before eight, snuggled in my Christmas bed jacket, my replacement
addiction, a book in hand, Amazon my pusher, party animal that I am.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Welcome to
2024<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #ff00fe;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-8138832995760707852024-01-16T14:04:00.003-07:002024-01-16T14:04:15.630-07:00My Magic Bed Jacket<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>My Magic Bed
Jacket</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: red;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My bed
jacket. It is a sign. A portent of things to come. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Christmas
Eve I went to Oconahua for a traditional Mexican feast of tamales and hot
chocolate with my friends. When I returned home, a gift bag stuffed tightly
with something rather heavy, sat on my patio table. I reached in and pulled out
. . . a jacket. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This jacket
is made of that plush, fluffy stuff, like a baby blanket. Thank goodness it is
not a pale pastel. I’d have to gift it onward. No, amazingly, the jacket is
patterned in a boxy red and brown cowboy-type plaid. And, it has a hood. I love
it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I first
held the jacket, I pictured myself wearing it while walking Lola. I put it on
for size. Nice fit. Hung my new jacket on the coat closet, which in my limited
space, is a pole with prongs for six jackets or sweaters and a hat. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As I prepared
for bed, somehow the jacket skewed its way into my thoughts. Hmmm, I said, removing
it from the coat stand, and putting it on over my night shirt. A bed jacket. A
perfect bed jacket. I climbed into bed with my book. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Understand,
I’ve never had a bed jacket. Bed jackets appear in British novels and Hollywood
movies from the 30s and 40s. Bed jackets are filmy, wafting, woven of air and a
few silky threads, pastel and pretty, for the rich and privileged. Not that I
would ever admit to being limited in my thinking. I certainly never imagined
myself in a bed jacket. Not me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I didn’t
allow myself to realize until that very moment I put it on that I had actually wanted
a bed jacket, perhaps subliminally I had always wanted a bed jacket, and that
this plaid bed jacket was the perfect gift for me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">No matter
how warm my main room is, my bedroom is always cool. On cold winter nights,
while I read a few chapters, I carefully tuck the bedding around my shoulders
and snake one hand outside the covers to hold the Kindle. That was then.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now, I sit
in bed, covers around my legs, my new bed jacket keeping my top half toasty
warm. Ah, such comfort. Such luxury. Such privilege. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As this year
comes to an ending (Thank you. I never thought you’d leave.) and the new year
is born and toddles into January, it is fitting that I consider my new bed
jacket a sign, a portent of changes to come. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I like signs
and portents. Tea leaves. Chicken intestines. Clouds in the sky. Oracles. They
are all good. They all work. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Several
years ago I was complaining to a dear friend about a situation in which I need
to make a choice. “I don’t know what I want to do. Either option looks good to
me and I just can’t choose.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This man, a
Harvard Law graduate, mind you, not a woo-woo bone in his body, dug a coin out
of his pocket. “Heads is Option A and tails for option B. You call it.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Oh, come
on. You can’t believe in that kind of magic.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Just call
it,” he replied. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Tails.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">He flipped
the coin, it landed on my choice. “Okay, does that make you feel happy with the
decision or do you wish the coin had landed on heads?’ <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ah. I got
it. Flipping a coin is just one way of letting my silly self see what I really
want when I can’t make up my mind because both options look great and my head
had gone into over-think. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That’s how I
see my new bed jacket as a sign of changes to come. If I can jog my attitude
toward a simple article of clothing out of the historical box into which I had
locked it, what other attitudes might I be able to change in the year to come?
Oh, the excitement! Oh, the anticipation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Thank you,
Dear Crinita, for the gift which is changing my winter life. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra Ashton</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">HDN: Looking Out My Backdoor</p><p class="MsoNormal">December 27, 2-23</p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-68859372412131306092024-01-16T14:01:00.001-07:002024-01-16T14:01:24.519-07:00The World Is My Apple<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>The World Is
My Apple</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #6aa84f;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Or, one
might say, this week, apples are my world. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Every year I
put a lot of thought into my gift giving for Christmas. Grandchildren are easy.
Gift certificates. They are of the age where money is the better choice. Gold, right?
For the babies, my grandchildren, my daughter handles that chore for me. She
knows best what they want, need, and enjoy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The hard
part is for us few who are here this holiday season in Gringolandia. We are
old. We already have everything we want. If I never see another scented soap,
special candle, or crocheted bookmark, I will be a happy woman. That’s me. I
speak for myself only. Maybe for others, those items would satisfy their
hearts’ desires. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My first
thought was to make round tuits. Okay, so maybe I’m stuck in eight-year-old
humor, but I think it would be fun to “get a round tuit”, artfully custom made,
of course. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">However, we
are a multi-cultural community and I’m not sure the humor would translate. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So, as
often, the solution to my quandary came down to something we all like and will
use, with the added benefit that I enjoy making and baking . . . apple pies. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A trip to
the market for extra flour, sugar, butter and a half-bushel of apples, on with
my apron, and I’m ready to roll. Roll dough, that is. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Apples. This
is not apple-growing country. Oh, for the crab apple tree that used to grow in
the corner of the pig yard on our farm on the Milk River. Those apples took a
lot of work, but fruit of any kind was precious in those days. Anybody who
messes with choke cherries and huckleberries knows what I mean. Those crab
apples made the best jelly and apple pies of any apple ever. Tart and juicy.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Trial and
error led me to the ugly apples. They are grown in Mexico. They are not pretty.
They are not always uniform. Look a little warty. But they are tasty and make a
good pie. (Other apples are shipped in and the flavor is lost in refrigerated
trucks. My opinion.) Most of us gringos call them, you know, those ugly apples.
So ugly apples it is. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">While
peeling applies, rolling out the dough, I like to think I am pouring love into
my pies along with sugar and spices and everything nices. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Tomorrow is
delivery day and I have one more pie to bake. This one is for my own self. I
get gifted too. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">May you all
have a most wonderful Christmas, whatever your beliefs, no matter how you
celebrate, celebrate life and love. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra Ashton</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Looking Out My Backdoor</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">December 20, 2023</span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-78909280485486440412023-12-12T10:22:00.006-07:002023-12-12T10:22:55.541-07:00Weirding my way into winter<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Weirding my
way into winter</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b><span style="color: #2b00fe;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">No longer
can I remain in denial. I am an addict. I am addicted to sunlight. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I lived
in Poulsbo, Washington, on the Kitsap Peninsula where it rained ten months of
the year, I remember how hard it was by February to keep up my spirits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is normal behavior, pretty much. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now, these
years later, after a mere couple (2) cloudy days with rain, and I begin to wonder
if a Prozac Big Gulp would really work. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Having grown
up in a country of constant drought, I love the rain. However, I love it more
here, where (usually) the days have a mix of sun and rain (when it comes in
season). When it is weird, like now, not so much. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Three weeks
now, well entrenched in the Dry Season, October to June, three weeks, I repeat,
three weeks of rain. The skies have emptied their black crumpled doomy-gloomy clouds
of rain, rain, rain every day. Makes me want to lay my head on the chopping
block like a chicken who gave up, go a-head, ready for the pot. (Sorry,
couldn’t help the pun.)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When we are
gifted with two days of sunshine, sunlight, sunglow, glorious, beautiful, warm,
brilliant, sizzling, sun, as we are today, were yesterday, ah. Happiness is. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Forecast for
tomorrow is cold, cloudy, doomy-gloomy and rain. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Nobody wants
to give attention to the words “climate change”. Simple. I understand. Overworked
becomes overlooked. For my own benefit, I’ve changed the words. Admit it or not,
we are well entrenched in Weather Weirding. (Along with other kinds of weirding
but . . . ) <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Winter is
bad enough without going weird. With harvest well under way, thousands of acres
of corn are now ruined, good only for silage. Cane harvest has only just begun
so should be okay except for the small amount of cut cane on the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On a
personal level, cold and wind and wet often find me huddled shivering in a
blanket. In an effort to take better care of myself, I splashed out. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A good
bathrobe is a lovely and decadent way to treat oneself with gentle care. I
never knew that until now. After an evening shower, I cuddle in my plush hooded
robe, double wrapped in front, which almost drags on the floor, with a book and
a cup of steaming tea with a candy cane, warm and cozy, waiting for my hair to
dry. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I take my
pleasures when and where I can, luxuriate in such simple joys. I give them my
attention, thank them for participating in my life. Makes me feel rich. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Look out the
window at my dog, Lola. There she is, on her back in a puddle of sunshine, legs
uplifted into the air, a look of silly satisfaction on her face. She is a good
model for mental health.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In the
Garden Weirding department, remember the lime tree I witched a few months ago.
I had tried being nice. I had even threatened that if she didn’t pop out some
limes soon, I would rip her out and replace her with a guava. Then a friend who
looks good in pointy hats and is handy with a broom, suggested I witch my barren
lime tree. Feeling foolish, I followed instructions. My lime tree today, who
can say how or why, coinkydinky I’m sure, has branches so heavy with fruit that
some are near to kissing the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Weirding
part though is not that. In addition to limes, she is giving me lemons. Uh huh.
Lemons. And the same branches also have limes. Mostly limes. Some lemons.
Explain that! Weird! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If I could,
I would follow Lola’s example and go lie on my back in the sun and soak it up
the sun before the clouds invade. If I get my creaky bones down to the ground, I
fear I might never get up! I suppose I could roll under a lime tree and suck on
a lemon.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">However, it
is clouding up and rain is on the way. Where did I put my bathrobe? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Raining in
December<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #2b00fe;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-8947821434231520332023-12-12T10:21:00.001-07:002023-12-12T10:21:17.960-07:00 A Different Kind of Day<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"> <b> </b><b>A Different Kind of Day</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Interesting
how we carve time to suit particular purposes. I won’t look it up, but thinking
about it, I’d not be surprised that our universal way of dividing our days
started with the Industrial Revolution, as a way of getting the workers to be
where and when the bosses wanted them to be. That is as political as I am
willing to be this morning. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My day began
yesterday, actually. It rained yesterday, so that jiggered up walk times with
Lola, but we managed to wriggle them into slots that worked for us. I don’t
walk in the rain and Lola is definitely not a water dog. She is a huddle in the
warm dog house dog.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then there
was a very large and very loud wedding at El Eden, just a couple kilometers
down from my house. Weddings around here are not quiet and seemly affairs. This
one was huge. It began early with music blaring from a wall of speakers,
punctuated by fireworks, day and night. Music is live, with bands lined up to
cater to every taste, beginning with the brand of music we older folks tend to
like and remember, and I’m grumphing here, it is downhill from there. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve always
wanted to walk over, just show up, if asked, I’m a friend of the bride or the
groom, whichever. For the food. Oh, the mountains of food. Fill a plate, sit in
a corner and watch the people. This would be, of course, early in the event.
Food, of course, is accompanied with quantities of liquids. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Back when I
used to go with Kathy to her resort, we watched a lot of weddings. Thus, I know
by the noise level, pretty much what is going on down the way. Eventually the
elders retire and the youngers take to the floor. We would say, Rock and Roll.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Until five
in the morning, I kid you not. So that was my night. Fortunately, even with
interruptions, I am an easy sleeper. So I woke at pretty much my usual time,
according to the light. Sort of. I don’t use a clock for wake up. Sunlight,
even muted, does that job. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Something
seemed off, the day didn’t sound right, but after ablutions, I got dressed,
ready to go walk my dog. Looked out the window and all plans came to a stop. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It could
have been raining all night from the looks of it. And it looks like it could
rain all day. Sorry, Lola. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This is our
third rain in a week. The first one blessed us with more rain than we had in
the entire (nearly non-existent) rainy season. Farmers are well into corn
harvest. Cane harvest just began. Oops. Not good timing. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My tomatoes
are beautiful and in full blossom, so not sure what this will mean for them.
Everything else must be soaking up the moisture with gratitude. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I feel
discombobulated. My whole routine out the door just turned in the door. I had
to turn my light on above my desk. I never turn on a light in the morning.
Natural light is plenty. I have to laugh at myself. I look out the window.
Raining. The forecast for the day hasn’t changed in the last hour and a half. The
forecast still says rain all day, all night. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>December 7, 2023<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #9fc5e8;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-79690473949921299412023-12-12T10:18:00.001-07:002023-12-12T10:18:10.655-07:00I Don’t Know<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>I Don’t Know</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I don’t.
Truly, I don’t know. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Life is so
much more interesting when I don’t know. When I “know”, I limit myself to where
it is difficult for new and different information to filter into my brain. Hey,
because I already know! A closed door. Right?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Take
something simple, like tortillas. What is there not to know about tortillas? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I feel
pretty puffed up that I can make decent corn tortillas. I seldom make flour
tortillas because they always come out looking like amoebas. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I had
leftover sweet potatoes, so on a whim, I decided to invent sweet potato-flour
tortillas. Okay, I borrowed the idea from rotis. Flat bread is flat bread, I
figured. If it works in India, it should work in Mexico. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My Grandma
taught me to cook, and even her written recipes called for things such as
“butter the size of a walnut” or a pinch of this and a handful of that. So when
confronted with a recipe, I look over the list of ingredient, frequently
substitute, add or subtract: kitchen chemistry. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Though I use
a Mexican foods cookbook I’ve had since 1975, with recipes from various regions
of the country, I tend to use recipes as, well, suggestions. The other day I
decided that maybe I don’t know, so I read the directions. Knead the dough? Let
it rest in a cool place before rolling? Who would have thunk it? I didn’t know.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In my usual
fashion, I mixed my sweet potato and flour, salt, shortening in proportions
that seemed right to me, drizzled water, kneaded the dough and put it in the
refrigerator to rest. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">All my life
I’ve made pies. I roll out a mean pie dough, perfect every time. I allow myself
a sweet burst of pride over my pie dough. So rolling tortillas should be a slam
dunk, right? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Wrong. I
mean, I’ve nothing against amoebas, but an amoeba doesn’t hold fillings the
same way a perfect round tortilla holds them. For those of you not keen on
reading all the directions, in case there is another of us, form the ball,
flatten it with your hand, roll once, quarter turn, roll once, quarter turn,
roll, turn until your beautiful round of dough is the thinness you desire. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Pretty
slick, eh? See what I mean? I could have been making my own glorious flour
tortillas all these years, but I already “knew”, thus limiting myself. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">That’s a
pitiful small example, but, believe me, it works on a larger scale with
important stuff. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Dreaded winter
is here. During late November, December, January and early February I am an
icicle. This year I did something different. I spent money. I bought a
different kind of space heater with hope. Hope that it might work warmly. Then
I went all out and blew my limited budget on a posh, thick, men’s extra-large
bathrobe. Men’s because men’s are better made, and larger to double drape over
my legs. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The day
after Thanksgiving I pulled my heater out from behind the chair in the corner
and read the directions. See, one can teach an old dog new tricks. Plugged it
in and within two minutes, I knew my heater was worth every hard-scrabbled peso.
See me smile? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Last night,
after my shower, I pulled my bathrobe on and fell in love. I felt like I was
held in warm, cuddly arms. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Speaking of
love, I have fallen head over heels in love with a real man. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My morning
routine includes short readings, from poets, other writers. They make me feel
good, make me think, give me something to chew on throughout the day. A few
months ago I added Gerald Manley Hopkins, 1844-1889, English poet and Jesuit
priest, to my list, simply because so many writers referred to him, a stranger
to me. My degree was in History. I missed a lot of Literature. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For weeks
and weeks, I wondered, why am I reading GMH? What was so brilliant about him?
But gamely, I kept going, until one morning I had an on-the-road-to-Damascus
experience. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I got it!
How could I not see it? How could I not know? How could I be so ignorant? The
man is beautiful, brilliant, genius, full of love and light and life. I’m his. Now
I can hardly wait for our morning tryst.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">So, see.
Every day now I try to remind myself that I just don’t know. If I don’t know,
incredible gifts tend to fall in my lap, like love. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">December?
Already? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-29357760640707660982023-12-12T10:15:00.007-07:002023-12-12T10:15:56.669-07:00Pardon My Turkey<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Pardon My
Turkey</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #7f6000;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One of the
many things I have come to respect about the Mexican culture, the Mexican
people, is their ability to celebrate. Times may seem grim and the larder near
empty, but they somehow will scrape together beans, tortillas, tomatoes and
peppers, gather family and neighbors into their homes to share a feast, and
maybe even shoot off a few fireworks, always with music in the background, even
if from a radio. Remember radio?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We, my
friends, in our country, seem to have whipped ourselves up into a real mashed
potato mess, appear to be in several varieties of a ‘pickle’, may think no
amount of sugar and marshmallows can redeem the yams, despite all this, we
could take a page from the book of “Be Happy” from our southern neighbors.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Celebrate.
Celebrate that it is snowing. Or that it is not snowing. Or that the water
pipes didn’t freeze. Or that you woke up breathing. Or that you have leftovers.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yesterday
was Thanksgiving Day. Most of you, my friends, cooked up a big family dinner,
turkey or not, with all the trimmings. How many times have I heard you say,
“The best thing about Thanksgiving is the leftovers the next day.”? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yep. So how
about we pile the goodies and build a sandwich, throw on a gob of cranberry
sauce, squeeze a slice of pumpkin pie onto the plate, and deliver it to a
neighbor, a friend, or, even better, an enemy. (Try that last one, just once.) <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Deliver the
plate with a few words suggesting that it feels good to celebrate gratitude
more often than one day a year, and what better way than with the best of the
leftovers, so, here, share with me. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Throughout
the year, I might find occasion to share more plates. Just a suggestion. Maybe
my chosen recipient throws my offering in the compost bin when I turn my back.
Doesn’t matter. What matters is that it sure made me feel good to prepare the
plate with my best, just cooked or leftover, no matter, decorated with a sprig
of cilantro or rosemary or mint, and share it with a smile.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If we all do
something like this once in a while, I guarantee, life will look less messy;
will seem just that little bit more kind and gentle. Me, I’m selfish. I do this
for me to feel good. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Don’t worry.
Be happy. Would you like gravy over your sandwich or in a dish to the side? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Thanksgiving?
Already? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #7f6000;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-74182477410365155302023-11-18T12:43:00.002-07:002023-11-18T12:43:37.364-07:00The Winter of, The Summer of, My Disillusionments<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>The Winter
of, The Summer of, My Disillusionments</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #38761d;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My friend
Jim from Glasgow sent me a short video clip of the Little Rockies, Three
Buttes, Snake Butte and the Bear Paws. Immediately, I yearned, homesick. I
shared the video with friends. “This is my beautiful country.” Their response,
not unexpected, “Ah, yes. Uh huh. Beautiful,” as they looked for an exit. Which
brought on this following chain of thought.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">To some this
will sound as though I am describing two foreign countries, and I am. Both
countries have disappeared. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My earliest
years were spent in Indiana, not far from the Ohio River, a mile wide, where
often we sat on a bank and watched tugs push three, four and five barges laden
with coal or ore or other goods. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Uncle Jim
came to visit. He and Dad talked late into the night. Not long after my Uncle
left, Dad came upstairs and sat on the edge of my bed one night. “How would you
like to go to Montana?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Where Uncle
Jim lives? Oh, yes!” I thought Dad meant a visit, a vacation. By the time I
figured out we were moving, I was horrified. Not that I had any voice in the
matter. I was ten. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">During the
Great Depression, Uncle Jim had gone to work on a family friend’s wheat ranch south
of Chinook. He never looked back. Dad had worked for the same man, before the
War. Montana had burrowed under his skin, into his heart. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By the time
we moved, Jim owned a Valley farm and a partnership in an implement dealership
in Harlem. Dad was going to buy the farm.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We had our
farm sale on a sunshine April Fools’ Day, green grass, daffodils waving their
silly heads. The following day, our car already packed, we left for Montana, in
the rain, an omen if ever there was one. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I left an
entire family of aunts and uncles with cousins my own age. (Uncle Jim’s
children were older.) I left an excellent school which encouraged students to
find ways to illustrate lessons, left all my friends, and everything I knew. I
left my rock collection, the geodes, all my toys, yes, toys. When I was ten, we
were still children. I was allowed to take one ‘toy’. I chose my books. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On a cold
afternoon, April 5, we drove into Harlem on the old highway, along a deeply
rutted dirt street, icy and banked with drifts of dirty snow. I’d never seen a
more desolate, ugly town, although we had been driving through the same towns
all day. Thaw was a couple weeks away. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On my
birthday I climbed on the school bus for my first day at Harlem Elementary,
terrified. At lunch, a girl grabbed my hand, "Come with us. Sally and
Sylvia (classmates) are going to fight in the park.” Now I was terrified and
horrified.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Fight, they
did, actual fisticuffs with blood. Girls! <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In my country, boys wrestled in play but I’d
never seen a real fight. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By the end
of the first week in my new school, my classmates hated me. Nobody told me you
weren’t supposed to have ideas. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I was yet to
discover gumbo mud which stole rubber boots from my feet, mosquitoes so thick
they covered my skin. Drought. Wind. Temperatures over 100 degrees and minus
40. A different country, harsh, a different culture, hard. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I cried
myself to sleep every night that first year, remembering a softer, gentle life.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I was
thirteen, my Dad put us on the Empire Builder and sent us home to Indiana for
the summer, a truly wonderful summer, with cousins and school friends. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Nothing had
changed. Everything had changed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There were all
the remembered friends, flowers and fruit. Along with red clay dirt. And
chiggers. (At least mosquitoes are visible and don’t burrow.) Copperheads in
the weeds and slithering through the blackberries. Humidity which made 75 seem
105. I had to reconnect with friends. Or not. Nothing was recognizable. People
I had idolized grew pimples. Or warts. (Metaphorical.) Depending on age. On our
old farm, house, barn and my swing tree had been razed to the ground to make
way for a sprawling brick “ranch-style” house. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">At summer’s
end, we climbed aboard the Monon, transferred to the Empire Builder in Chicago,
and returned home. Home. Home to Harlem, where the streets were still dirt, but
home. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Nothing had
changed but me. I could see with different eyes, could measure on a scale more
balanced. I never lost my love for Indiana, but I knew my home.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve learned
to make my home in many different places. But Home will always be that harsh,
hard country I love. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">November—yikes--middle<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #38761d;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-15192882305511899672023-11-08T16:29:00.002-07:002023-11-08T16:29:31.520-07:00There is a hole in our lives.<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>There is a
hole in our lives.</b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There aren’t
many of us here on the rancho. Not all of our houses have their people. But the
last several days, we<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>who are here, me,
Nancie, Julie, Lani and Ariel, Tom and Janet, frequently found ourselves
running up against, no, not a wall, but a hole. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This hole
has a specific size and shape, exactly the size and shape of Leo. Leo helps all
of us with gardening, planting, pruning, mowing, cutting, watering. But Leo is
more than a gardener. He has helped all of us, at one time or another, with
translating, with information, with getting necessary services, with business, with
appointments, with shopping. He can be kind of a catch-all. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For most of
us, he has become even more. He’s a friend, a son, may I say, a grandson? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Leo was out
with Covid. We all ask, “How did he catch it?” I’d say it caught him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The last ten
days of October are the annual Festival, a time of celebrations, parades, community
dinners, all manner of festivities. Everybody in town has relatives who work in
the States. There is a lot of travel back and forth, especially during
Festival, followed by The Day of the Dead. Many residents work in Guadalajara,
back and forth daily. Opportunities to cart around viruses abound. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In addition,
last week Leo took care of his nieces while his sister worked. They were home
from school, sick with flu. What kind of flu? Nobody went to the doctor to ask,
“Is this Coronavirus?” When school kids are sick, and whatever the flu, and, it
laid out the entire class, the mothers did what we all know to do. Tuck them in
bed, plenty of fluids, a basin, warm water and wash cloths nearby. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Where he got
it or where it got him matters not. He got it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Out came our
masks, our polite distances, our test kits. We all had had contact. Out came
our anxiety.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">By the second
day of Leo’s absence, we were learning how much we depended on him, in ways we
didn’t think about often. By the forth and fifth day, the hole left in the
shape of Leo, had become distorted to giant-sized. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">For me,
gardening is only part of the picture. Even I can do enough to keep the whole
mess from outright dying. Mostly. No, it was more the little things. Leo
stopped by most of our houses daily, “Need anything?” or just, “How are you
doing?” He’d sit, drink a glass of water, eat a cookie, chat a while, catch us
up on the news in town. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Meanwhile,
underlying our dependence, is a strange current of dichotomy. We tell him, “You
are young, you have a university education, you are smart, you have skills way
beyond pruning plants, valuable skills. You need to be thinking about your
future.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then we
follow that with, “But, we would miss you. What would we do without you? We
couldn’t cope. We love you, our dear Leo.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We talk out
of both sides of our mouths, sincerely. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We want to
see this young man do more with his life, get ahead, whatever that means. At
the same time we don’t want to lose him. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Consider
this: maybe, just maybe, it is we who have grasped the wrong end of the stick. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When Leo
decided he didn’t want to teach school, that he wanted to work outdoors, with
plants, with people, maybe our young friend, has found his life’s work. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Maybe he is
smarter than we are. Maybe his genius, his gift, is in working with elders. Maybe
we should be going to Leo for advice. Maybe pruning and planting are merely his
tools, disguising his real work. Maybe. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">November here we are!<o:p></o:p></span></p><span style="color: #cc0000;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span><p></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-45087270212157143502023-11-07T08:56:00.006-07:002023-11-07T08:56:56.023-07:00Life is not a bowl of tortillas. <p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Life is not
a bowl of tortillas.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Last week a
registered historic hotel in Glendive burned. The night the fire was started
was also the night of the first winter blizzard. Firemen from a hundred-mile
radius came to fight the fire which razed the hotel and a neighboring building.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My
daughter’s office is in the upper floor of a building adjacent to the hotel. Firemen
battled the blaze all night and the following day to keep her building from
burning. For three days the hotel fire smoldered and flared. For three days Dee
Dee was not allowed into her building. From necessity she slipped through the
back entrance with a big flashlight to retrieve her computer, noting extensive
smoke and water damage. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Do you ever
look at your kids and wonder from where they came? Found beneath a cabbage
leaf? Flown in by a stork? Delivered by an alien space ship from Planet X?
Sometimes I think, “That child is no relation to me.” I haven’t the backbone of
steel, the determination, the pure heart to carry on under circumstances that
would break many of us. She has them all. That woman is my teacher. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">With the
retrieval of her computer, she is back in business, seeing some clients by
video. With the restoration of electric power and the okay by the safety
inspectors, she is back in her smoky, leaking offices, seeing clients strong
enough to brave the stairway and the conditions. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Me, I was a
wreck for a full five days, from 2500 miles away. My girl is still recovering
from radical surgery, from the removal of a cancerous tumor. She stands strong
in her community, still helping others. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One of my
good friends said, “Oh, no, she doesn’t need this.” No, she doesn’t. Neither
does Acapulco need Hurricane Otis. Most of us can look at our own lives and
find our own personal fires and hurricanes. We didn’t need them but they came.
Like my daughter, we dealt with them the best we could, hopefully with help. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Let me tell
you about tortillas. In the mid-70s I lived in California and began making my
own Mexican food. Tortillas were always a challenge. I had a tortilla press. One
can buy masa harina in any grocery. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My tortillas
would be sticky. Or they would fall apart in the middle. Or the edges would
crumble. Seldom did I make what I would call a really fine batch. I didn’t try
often. The tortilla press would gather dust in the back of a corner cupboard.
It is too easy to buy a bag of tortillas, all perfect, in any grocery. They
never fall apart or leak. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">However,
periodically I would drag out the press and try again. Dough too wet, too dry,
and the press went back to the cupboard. Living here in Mexico, I keep masa
harina on hand for a lot of thing, cornbread, gorditas, or sopes. And I have a
dandy-fine press. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sometimes I
buy a handful of masa from one of the women in the market who process and grind
their own corn and with their delicious masa, I make better tortillas. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On a whim,
just because I was hungry for breakfast tacos, I wiped off my press, grabbed my
masa harina and made tortillas. I aced it. I made the best yummy flat rounds
with plain ol’ masa. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">It all had
to do with intention. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Tortillas
take masa flour and water. That’s all, Folks. I drizzled warm water into the
flour, took my time, gave it my full attention. Then I worked it and worked it
and worked it, with my hands. When the dough felt ready, it told me, because I
listened. I made small balls with my dough, pushing and pressing them in my
hands, with love, keeping the works covered with a wet cloth. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Instead of
the usual 6 inch tortillas, I made 4 inch, like almost everybody in town makes.
Cooked them on my comal (griddle), medium heat, 30 seconds on one side,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>40 on the other, plopped them into a towel
lined covered bowl.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They were
perfect, my tortillas, tender and fluffy, and I claim bragging rights. I
already had my taco ingredients chopped and ready. Ate too many but I didn’t
care. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Life, Folks,
is not a bowl of perfect, bendable, scooper tortillas. Life is more like my
hurried tortillas, the ones I used to make, which would split in the middle, or
crumble around the edges. Messy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When Life
gives us those perfect little tortilla moments, I say, brag, shout, eat the
goodness and enjoy the whole experience. My daughter taught me that.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">November
already!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #cc0000;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-30484592188104563082023-11-07T08:54:00.005-07:002023-11-07T08:54:44.763-07:00When we get back<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>When we get
back </b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #ff00fe;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My friends, Nancie
and Julie were touring Italy for two weeks. Their husbands showed no interest
in Italy. The women said, “That’s okay. We will go by ourselves. Keep the home
fires burning. When we get back we will have so much to tell you.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If I went to
Italy, I’d choose a small village, maybe near Lake Como, and stay for the
duration, get to know that area, maybe even get to know some of the people.
Same plan if I wanted a city immersion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">However, for
an overview to hit the high spots, tours are a great way to see a lot of
country quickly.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We all knew
that the women would be too busy, too much on the go, to send reports. Nancie
is her family photographer, so she sent photos almost daily, photos of famous
palaces and cathedrals and statues, pictures of hotel rooms, shots of food, of
restaurants, of streets, of stores. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Based on
their photos and my own tours or tour-ship watching, I have taken liberties and
extrapolated their trip. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">On only two
days, her photos included a picture of herself and of Julie. Each time, sitting
at plates of food. Looking glad. Or, looking exhausted. One of them seemed to
be thinking, “This is it? This is all?” Or, maybe her feet hurt.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When the
women returned, they said, “Oh, it was marvelous.” “We saw so much.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Would you like more coffee?” “This weather
is ruinous. I can’t believe the garden looks so—ragged.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They don’t
tell us about the other people on the tour. No mention is made of lumpy beds,
welcome nonetheless, at the end of a day tromping through museums, churches, up
streets, down streets.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They don’t
tell us how glad they were to kick their shoes off aching feet at the end of
each day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“Hurry,
hurry,” the guide says, “We’ve so much to show you. Fifteen minutes here and
meet back at the bus.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We don’t
hear about the strange foods, though many plates rated photos. The only meal
with honorable mention was fish and chips in Sorrento. They neglect to say that
some meals were merely bread and coffee, because the plate in front of them,
“Well, we couldn’t eat ‘that’, could we?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We know they
walked through innumerable Cathedrals, each one breathtakingly beautiful, hurried,
scurried through ‘because there is a schedule to keep so we can see
everything’, until each Cathedral mushed together into one, like mashed
potatoes. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Our friends
don’t tell us about all the jewelry stores on the list (expensive) or the
tourist trinket stores (cheap, imported from China). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They don’t
mention the buff young men or dissolute middle-aged men who might have
approached them, offering ‘private tours’, because all American women tourists
are rich. And who can blame them for wanting to help themselves. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">No mention
is made of street vendors, in their faces, pushy, relentless, loud. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Neither
woman mentions the smells. Venice, Rome, Florence, each has its own odor, even
in the tourist areas, and nobody is encouraged to explore outside the
designated tourist area. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The photos
they show us are not equipped with sound. What is the street noise like? Every
city sounds different. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They don’t
talk about their companions in the tour group. About the giggly matron who is
revealed to be so kind behind her provocative mask, dressed like she is fifteen.
Or the man who drinks too much, always laughing, to ward away the tears. Or the
couple, we know they are a couple, who never speak, never look at each other,
don’t touch. Or the kind person who seems to know how to put everyone at ease.
Or, the pair at the back of the bus, the back of every queue, content within
themselves. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I made up
the parts about other people. Details may vary, but I know from experience it
is true enough. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">They have so
much to tell us, but they cannot, can they? How do you condense each day with
thousands of new experiences into a conversation? Over the years, individual
memories will pop up, in relation to something seen or something said. We will
get a glimpse. Meanwhile . . .<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">“We have so
much to tell you.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But they
don’t. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">How can
October be over? Boo!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #ff00fe;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-13205082863820274932023-11-07T08:52:00.006-07:002023-11-07T08:52:53.494-07:00Instruction Manual: Care and Feeding of a Funk<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Instruction
Manual: Care and Feeding of a Funk</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The other
day I found myself feeling a little low, a little down in the dumps. The
problem is, I was enjoying the feeling, to some extent. The next problem is
that I found it so dag gone hard to maintain the slump. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We don’t
come with an instruction manual so I figure it is high time somebody writes
one.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">***This does
not apply to real depression. Depression is a serious matter. For real
depression, see your doctor. Please. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One of my
friends said, “It’s your bio-rhythm. Wait a few days and you will cycle through
it with a mood upswing.” I said, “You are so stuck in the ‘70s. Hmmm. I wonder
whatever happened to my mood ring.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Another
friend told me, “Ah, yes. One of the planets is in retrograde.” She didn’t know
which one and I wouldn’t know what that means anyway. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Two poets
told me that feeling sad is the human condition. “Amen,” I said. “So is feeling
joy.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I figured my
slump in the funky dump meant that on some level I wanted to wallow in a little
self-pity. I think that feeling sorry for myself brings its own reward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I also know that like the planets and
bio-rhythm, this too will pass. After I drain my funk of all the pleasure I can
squeeze out. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I don’t
waste too much time figuring out what causes me to hit the low notes. They
comes. They goes. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">One of my
long-ago friends used to tell me that when she really wanted to feel pain in
her life, all she had to do was take the ferry to Seattle and visit her abusive
mother. She said she always drove home thinking about driving into a bridge
abutment at 90 mph. But.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">But. But,
she returned to her little home and her son grateful for life, grateful that
she was alive and that she did not repeat her mother’s parenting pattern. She,
a forever friend, always made me smile.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My
restlessness meant I didn’t want to do anything. I didn’t want to go anywhere.
But, I couldn’t sit still. Several times a day I wandered out to my back yard
to a little patio slab I had made beneath the jacaranda tree. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Now, this is
a real mood wrecker. Immediately I was surrounded with butterflies, eight, ten,
a dozen, all sizes, all colors, the huge white bed-sheet butterflies, the
colorful oranges and yellows and browns and purples and all combinations of
colors, including a huge black moth, as large as a bat. And, they didn’t care.
They didn’t care if I felt up or down. They didn’t care that I am human and
dangerous. They simply are. And, they flitted all around and played tag in my
face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I no more
than sat down to become butterfly entertainment, than the silly little
partridge doves were at my feet. Same story. They didn’t care. They didn’t care
that I might be wondering how many dozen of them it would take to bake in a
pie, more than four and twenty. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When a flock
of my favorite black-bellied whistling ducks flew low overhead, I gave up. I
went back to the house to make a pie. Apple pie. On my way to the house I
pulled a juicy lime from my broom-stick tree. That lime smelled as good as I
felt. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’m sorry. I
had failed again. This isn’t much of an instruction manual. I tried. You will
just have to figure out what works best for you. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">October,
leaves, they are a turning<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-53501122911973633422023-11-07T08:49:00.001-07:002023-11-07T08:49:16.474-07:00Job Application for Sports Person<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Job
Application for Sports Person </b><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #800180;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Dear Editor,<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I recently
spotted an opening for a sports person for the newspaper. I didn’t read the
description closely but am confident I could quickly polish and perfect my qualifications
for the position. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I was
nine or ten years old, before we moved to Montana, my Dad took me to a
Cardinal’s game at the stadium in Louisville, Kentucky, a skip, a jump and a
slide across the Ohio River from where we lived. The game was at night and the
field was well lighted. I did wonder if the players had a hard time keeping an
eye on the baseball when it flew through the shadows. I noticed that while
sitting up in the bleachers. I am most observant. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The hot dog
with mustard and relish was fantastic, as was the Ne-hi Orange soda. That was
the first time I ate a hot dog in a bun. At home we had wieners cut up in a can
of Van Camp’s Pork and Beans, which had very little pork. It is not the same
thing. That is neither here nor there, but demonstrates that I can fluff up a
piece when I need to do so. I still like a good hot dog.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In high
school I attended a few football games on nights, badly lit, when the snow blew
in circles and it was always bitter cold. We girls huddled in a cluster on the
bleachers. We were there to watch boys, not a pigskin. In later life I watched
one Rose Bowl Game on television. Same story with better snacks. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Basketball
was more my speed. I will say the gym was always stinky and noisy. Always.
Unfortunately, we did not have girls’ basketball back then. I found basketball
more to my understanding. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My Dad used
to referee girls’ basketball, back in our little community in Indiana. I
suspect he refed with more of an eye for the girls than for the basketball, but
what do I know. He did say that it was a hoot and that the girls fought harder
than the guys. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In the
spring, we had track. I have a rudimentary beginning knowledge of track events.
In my youth, all sports were for boys. We did not have a baseball team. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We did not
have girls’ sports of any kind back in our day. I still have residual
bitterness that the boys had full seasons of sports and we had zero, zilch,
nothing. I will be vigilant in reporting girl’s’ and women’s teams equally with
boys’ and men’s teams. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I would have
been good at baseball. I have read everything W.P. Kinsella wrote. Everything.
I will say “Shoeless Joe” is better than “Field of Dreams”, but I confess to a
book bias. Still, I enjoyed “Field of Dreams”. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Yep. I’m reckon
I am fairly good at baseball. I assisted the director as well as played the
role of Rose in “Bleacher Bums”. Go Cubbies. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Of course, I must climb to the top of a steep
learning curve. The world of sports no longer revolves around football,
baseball and basketball. Now even in small communities we have wrestling,
boxing, soccer, softball, swimming, dance, gymnastics, volleyball, hockey,
curling, tennis, golf and even that strange sport where you either catch or
throw (?) the ball from a funny basket on a stick. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I am up for
the challenge. In every community, there is a café with a round table back in
the corner in which around ten in the morning, several retired men gather for
coffee and confab. These men know all there is to know about sports. They know
the characteristics of every team and of every player. They know. Ask them.
They know.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If I hang
out at an adjacent table and take notes, in no time at all, I will be up to
speed in sports. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In addition
I would be able to address such often ignored but important things as
sportswear, equipment, community support, snacks, and the spectators, without
whom, sports would flounder. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When would
you like me to start?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">October,
season changing quickly<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #800180;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-71284557500731500622023-10-03T11:24:00.003-06:002023-10-03T11:24:26.453-06:00October is the best month!<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>October is
the best month! </b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b><span style="color: #ffa400;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">September
ended here in my little patch of Mexico with record-breaking heat. The heat I
can handle. The humidity is brutal. Early this morning, 70F, humidity in the
90s, go hang laundry on the line, come inside with sweaty wet hair. In the
afternoon, when <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it is 90, when I return
to the house with dry laundry, I’m hot but dry. When we Montanans say, “Yes,
but it is dry heat”, we know what we are talking about. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">October will
be different. Won’t it? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">And the
critters, oh, my, the critters. Critters in the house. Last night I found a
scorpion on the bathroom floor. Alive. Alive when I saw him. The horrifying
thing to me is that I never had that stomach lurching moment of fear. More an
“Oh, another scorpion.” Stomp. Smash. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Tonight it
was a lizard in the bathroom. It is still alive, somewhere up the wall.
Somewhere. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ll bet you
don’t go to bed wondering if a lizard might scrabble across your face in the
night. Have you ever looked at their hand-like feet? Let’s not even allow a
thought to form about scorpions in the night. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">There are
two varieties of ants that are ever-present, in the kitchen mostly. These
little buggers are so tiny that you only notice them when they move. Okay, they
move pretty much constantly. Vinegar in a spray bottle. Doesn’t stop them but
keeps the population down. I am sure my diet is well supplemented with
miniscule ants. Protein. We all need protein.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then the big
brown ants show up. Oh, don’t worry about them, I’m told. They just are passing
through, looking for water. ??? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Depending on
the time of year, I’m also told bugs come in the house to get out of the cold, for
shade from the heat, away from the wet, or because outside is too dry. Choose
your myth, I say. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">House
centipedes, roly-poly bugs, silverfish. They are just nuisances. At least they
stay on the floor. Spiders are everywhere, all seasons. I have the bites to
prove it. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The lizard
should be able to find plenty to eat while it shelters from the blistering sun,
indoors, wherever it is now. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Both flies
and mosquitoes seem to know their season is waning, the cold will come, giving
us a few months respite. Knowing this, they zero in, frantic to chomp flesh,
mine in particular. That’s not really true, I just feel like they target me in
particular some days. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">This morning
I watched two huge flocks of whistling ducks heading north. I will miss them.
They are so beautiful. They leave but their loss is balanced by an influx of
colorful others. One bird sounds like a scold and when I scold back, it gives
me what for in no uncertain terms. Another helpful bird screams out, “prime the
pump, prime the pump”.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m certain that
bird met up with Desert Pete. (Kingston Brothers) <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">In amongst
the songbirds, is a bird which screeches like a banshee. What does a banshee
sound like? Well, I don’t really know, do I? But if I did know, a banshee is
what that bird would sound like. You can’t refute my logic.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">If you are
interested in animals on the move, the iguanas move out of our yards during the
rainy season, finding feeding grounds in the fields more to their gourmet satisfaction.
Once the corn harvest begins, the ugly critters scurry back to our yards, lush
with hibiscus and every possible flowering plant we can scrounge from the
Viveros. They especially seem to thrive on flowers grown from smuggled seed,
not that any of us would smuggle seed, but we do have the odd contact. Nudge.
Nudge. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Despite the
ravages of iguanas and leaf-cutter ants, our gardens seem to thrive. Well, we
tend to overplant them so have plenty to share.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Like I said
above, October is the . . . wait, wait, that’s a typo. What I mean to say is,
October is the pest month! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">October,
obviously<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #ffa400;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-15545461013812846982023-10-03T11:15:00.002-06:002023-10-03T11:15:36.174-06:00Writing Down A Quilt<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b>Writing Down
A Quilt</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><b><span style="color: #b45f06;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></b></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Usually I
sit down to write with something specific on my mind. Today I have a scrap of
this and a scrap of that. What does one do with scraps? One makes a quilt. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Michelle
called. “Let’s go to the Plaza for cake.” In the Mercado a teeny coffee shop
recently opened, fancy drinks and baked goods. They make the best carrot cake. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Michelle,
Ana and I found a bench in the shade in the Plaza, where we enjoyed our drinks
and cakes put our worlds in order. During this time, I had a realization. I am
truly a resident, no longer a “tourist”. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The Plaza is
the Town Center, lots of activity, with vendors of crafts, foods, clothing,
even tools. The first years I lived here, I wanted to see everything, a
tourist. Now I only want to visit with my friends. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Back home, I
noticed the bed-sheet butterflies have returned. Even in the animal world,
there are residents, here year-round, tourists, passing through, and
snow-birds, here for a few months. For the next month, some go north, some go
south, some settle in for the winter. We come. We go. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I have a new
resident in my home. For the last couple years, I’ve nattered on and on,
wanting a dressmaker manikin but not wanting to spend the money. At present, my
entire wardrobe is the result of the work of my own hands. I took apart a pair
of pants for a pattern, easily modified; the other garments I make by guess and
by gosh. Often that means, stitch, take apart, adjust, recreate what I’ve just
created, to fit! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Ruby
Red-Dress has come to stay. As you might guess, given choices, I quickly bypassed
black and gray and navy, and said, “Ruby, come live at my house.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">She will
help me immensely, not just with sizing, but with the ability to be more
creative. Why did I wait so long! Already my new friend is assisting me to make
a top I could not have made without her help.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">A few months
ago my daughter sent me a box of puzzles, most new, but some from her local
second-hand store. Puzzles allow my mind to shift gears. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">When I
dumped a previously-owned box of puzzle pieces onto my table, I sniffed, ah ha,
“This belonged to a family with children.” I could smell it. I knew their home
was lived in, maybe chaotic at times, but in a good way. Then I noticed a
barely legible scribble on the boxtop. X MISSING PIECE. Does that mean ten
missing pieces? Does that mean one missing piece? A puzzle within the puzzle. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">What fun for
me to work what other fingers had worked. In the lower left, one piece is
missing, though frequently I would have bet on more than ten. And a horse’s
head is well chewed by a teething toddler. It all worked together to make this
999 piece puzzle more special.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Seasons are
changing, winter is coming. I know I should not gripe. October is pleasant.
November is tolerable. December and January are downright cold. To me, that
means 40s and 50s, F. Not so cold. Unless you live in an uninsulated, drafty
house with no heat source. After a day or two, that is Cold! <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve made do
with a space heater, which knocks the chill down a few pegs. But I’m never
quite comfortable. When I get chilled, my bones hurt, so, those two months, I’m
miserable. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My daughter
told me about a different type space heater they bought last year for their
basement. They live in a hundred-year-old country house. I figure their
basement is about equivalent to my house in terms of size and heating problems.
If it works in her basement, it should work in my home.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I went to
the site we all order from, similar to our old Sears and Sawbuck Catalog, and
asked for the same heater as Dee Dee bought. It told me, not available, don’t
know when. Dee Dee, strangely, could order the same heater, but they would not
ship it to Mexico. What’s up with this? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">My girl and
I spent an entire week looking at heaters, trying to assess whether they would
work as well as hers, the one I wanted, the one I knew would work best for me. .
Each one we chose was deemed not available. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Frustrated,
and on a whim, I went to their Mexico site. The first heater depicted was my
daughter’s exact heater. One minute later, it was purchased and on the way.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Laugh with
me. I think I can have my cake and eat it too.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">September
flew too quickly bye<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #b45f06;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-13955944915481888122023-10-03T11:13:00.003-06:002023-10-03T11:13:22.511-06:00 I Can’t Believe I’m Going To Tell You!<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><b>I Can’t Believe
I’m Going To Tell You! </b><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 1in; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="color: #04ff00;">________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Some stories should stay hidden and this might be one of
that kind. It is ridiculous, embarrassing and impossible. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have three lime trees in my yard. In the back yard, I
first planted a key lime. After three naked years and lots of talks, including
veiled threats, she began producing limes in profusion. So I planted a
regular-type lime in the front yard. It made limes a mere toddler and hasn’t
paused yet. So I planted another regular-style lime in back next to the key
lime. I use a lot of limes.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">This poor dear dangled a few limes when I planted her but
nary a lime, year after year and another year. I cajoled, begged, pleaded,
threatened. Nada. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We several women friends talk regularly via email. I said,
“I’m close to digging her up and replacing her with a mango or a papaya or
something flowery.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Karen said, she really did say this, “Take a broomstick and
whack the tree trunk in each of the four directions, north, south, east and
west.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“You are joking, right?”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">“I did it with my lazy apple tree and that year my apples
broke branches, the apples were so full and heavy."<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can’t believe I did it. I can’t believe I admit to you
that I did it. I carefully scanned the yard, to make sure nobody could see me
out in the back lawn holding my broom and looking guilty. My yard is enclosed
by a tall brick wall grown up with all manner of bushes, trees and greenery.
The only way anybody could see me would be with one of those flying spying
things. I struck a nonchalant listening pose, just in case. Air above me was
clear of all but birds and butterflies. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I explained to my lime tree that this would hurt me more
than it would hurt her and that it was for her own good. Then I gave her a
whack, once in each direction; north, south, east and west. I sneaked back to
the house blowing my nose and propped my broom in the corner. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That was a couple months ago. I didn’t give my lime tree a
lot of attention until the other day while gathering a handful of key limes. I
glanced over and about lost my eyeballs. My lazy lime tree was full of limes in
all phases of growth, big limes, little baby limes and middle-size limes. I had
to circle her twice just to make sure it was real. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Magic? Of course not. She was ready, right? It was her time
to bloom, right? I know it was a co-inkydinky. A whack with a broom will not
make a tree bear fruit. But it was kind of a kick just to do it, sort of gave
me more patience with my slow tree. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">However, if you want real magic, I got a taste of the true
stuff later the same day that I noticed my tree full of limes. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had a bag of frozen mango I’d taken out to make a pie, but
changed my mind. I also had a quarter of a fresh pineapple I needed to use
soon. I’d been grating Mexican-type zucchini into my pancake batter and figured
a mango-pina syrup would enhance pancakes like a charm. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I whizzed the fruit in the blender. Syrup is easy, right.
Fruit and sugar and water. A pinch of salt to enhance the flavor. Heat, stir,
and voila, syrup to spare and to share. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ha! Anybody who has ever worked with chokecherries knows how
difficult it is to make jelly. One must be precise in measurements, exact in
standing over the heat and stirring, assiduous in testing for the jell stage,
and nine times out of ten, instead of jam, one makes syrup. Just the way it is.
Syrup is good, so we pour it into jars and process it. Yummy, drizzled or
drenched over pancakes on those cold and snowy mornings. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Fruits with natural pectin are easier to jell, but still,
without care, one makes syrup. This time I took no care, measured approximates,
wanting and expecting syrup. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I poured my syrup into jars, one for the freezer, one for my
immediate use, one to share with Lani and another to share with Janet. The
syrup seemed kind of thick but it is easy to thin out to the right consistency.
<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next morning, given a chance to cool, my beautiful jars
of fruit syrup had jelled. No syrup. Just jelly. Now that is real magic. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Sondra Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">HDN: Looking out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">The almost end of September</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #04ff00; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8762807693143511570.post-47256313500992331402023-09-12T16:49:00.004-06:002023-09-12T16:49:39.778-06:00My head is in the clouds.<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><b>My head is in the clouds.</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGr2tMhpJqY46czy5HJtkBNuc96tdIV_upetMkKvtiLoKRatOdF3eCklkbBCnI2z0ZRqKeoOhgJA5eXAowoPqlSfmH0s7zkaxc4KTuHebXwt1PetEM-Qo_6LtREa82oLfelpD9tE2IdAMlUdfR5Gtyl69GTuOzDiwuiD7pi5mBn2CNKaPRXaSavg35l7w/s1600/Hearts3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="935" data-original-width="1600" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGr2tMhpJqY46czy5HJtkBNuc96tdIV_upetMkKvtiLoKRatOdF3eCklkbBCnI2z0ZRqKeoOhgJA5eXAowoPqlSfmH0s7zkaxc4KTuHebXwt1PetEM-Qo_6LtREa82oLfelpD9tE2IdAMlUdfR5Gtyl69GTuOzDiwuiD7pi5mBn2CNKaPRXaSavg35l7w/w522-h268/Hearts3.jpg" width="522" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #ff00fe;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></div><b><br /></b><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Every
morning these past few days, when Lola and I take our early morning walk, the
clouds are rolling down the mountains. We move through the mist, feet on the
ground, heads in the clouds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Another hour
and the sun burns the air crisp and brilliant with shadows of orange. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">As happens,
my day turned topsy turvy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I was all
self-hyped to go to Dr. Imelda, my dentista, to finally have my last crown set
onto my tooth. This crown has been a process and practice in delay and
patience. Dr. Imelda nixed the first attempt immediately. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Turns out
that the trusted lab she has used for years had a machine break down. Please
understand I’m telling this to the best of my Spanish to English understanding.
The lab farmed the tooth crown out to another lab while awaiting their new
machine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Dr. Imelda
also rejected the second attempt. The lab tech said new machine takes new
skills and new learning. She filled my mouth with goops, 1, 2 and 3, yet again.
Each goop a different color. Not fun. I have great respect for this woman for
not accepting less than perfect. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The third
attempt has arrived but Dr. Imelda’s son was very sick and she was nursing him.
I understand. No problem. We are now into this process two months. Finally, today
is the day. I gear myself up for the ordeal.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then, while
waiting for my ride, my dentist called from the hospital in Guadalajara where
she accompanied her husband who is very ill. Another delay. What can I say. Please,
take care of your husband, my tooth can wait. I’m happy to wait. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Back in the
day, I learned to drive a stick shift. We all did. I have no problem shifting
gears, actually or metaphorically. I had chilis and tomatillos and tomatoes and
extra limes to deal with in the kitchen. I’ll have a jolly kitchen day.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Then Leo
showed up to water the gasping, thirsty plants. “When I finish watering, I’ll
hang your baskets and hearts. I need you to show me how you want them.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Down shift a
gear while I fill in the back story. Several years ago I bought baskets to hang
on the rafters of my covered patio/outdoor kitchen. Each basket is a different,
size, shape, color, all made with natural reeds. I don’t put light bulbs in mine
for the same reason you probably would not light yours—mosquitoes. I don’t
entertain at night. No reason for a well-lighted patio. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I live in
farm country. While not in the middle of the corn field, dust is still a
constant. Last week I had Leo take down the baskets and hose them clean, hang
them on the gates to dry in the sun. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Another year
I bought a multitude of colored blown-glass hearts, which I hung on the brick
wall to the side of my house. Meanwhile a tiny ivy-like plant, purpose bought,
grew and grew and grew, like Jack’s magic bean, until it completely covered my
bare-naked wall, entwining and encompassing the hearts. I searched out the long-invisible
hearts, cut them free and cleaned them. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Why not hang
some of the large hearts from inside the baskets, and then hang the extra
hearts on strings from the same beams? I question my ideas because I never
know. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Today, we
hung baskets, each with a large colored heart hanging from the center. We
strung together the extras, five sizes, and hung them from the beams, blue,
green, gold, aqua, red and orange. Baskets. Hearts. I like the colorful effect.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Back in the
kitchen, I blanched the chili peppers; jalapenos, the long banana peppers, and
the little scrunchy green ones, hotter than firecrackers, and put them in my
freezer. Same process with tomatillos. I squeezed the limes to make limonada
and aqua frescas. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I eye-balled
my half bushel of tomatoes, knowing an equal amount or twice more is yet to
come. I don’t eat that many tomatoes so why do I plant so many? My daughter,
who is recuperating nicely, by the way, suggested I can my good tomato-apple
catsup again. Yes, good idea. Out in the bodega, I counted the jars left from
my last batch. I’ve at least enough for another year. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">I bagged my
tomatoes, kept a half-dozen for my own use, and handed Leo the bags to
distribute to the neighbors and to his sisters. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">We don’t
know, do we?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I got up this morning,
I was prepared to go to the dentist and spend the rest of the day, down-shifted
to grandma gear, reading and napping, my usual routine on dental day. We just
don’t know. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">Sondra
Ashton<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">HDN: Looking
out my back door<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;">The exact
middle of September<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><span style="color: #ff00fe;">______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________</span></span></p>Sondra Jean Ashtonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05387063703566080031noreply@blogger.com0